Patria
by N.C. Stormeye
Summary: His fellows would ask him, on those late afternoons at the Café, when they were not talking of revolution, about his mistress...Enjolras/OC. Very AU, but canon in the eventual fate of Les Amis.


**DISCLAIMER: **I do not own Les Miserables, which is property of Hugo, Boublil, and concept of Patria belongs to the fans who first thought of it as an "inside joke."

**A/N: **Inspired by some blocking done for Act 2 of Les Miserables. The concept of "Enjolras has a girl named Patria" is an inside joke that has been around for a while (enough to merit some devART submissions in her honor). My concept of her, however, is more than a bit Eponine-inspired. I have tried to make Enjolras as in-character as I can, but please excuse any OOC-ness.

Takes place in a mix of the musical and Brick canons, though heavily in the musical. I've taken some liberties with the timeline of some events (e.g. when exactly do the students discover that Paris has not stirred) and with who does what during the last attack on the barricades. Also, as much as I want to give Enjolras and Grantaire the bromance moment they deserve, as per the Brick's instructions, for the sake of this plot, I've altered R's final tribute to his leader. This is, in my opinion, pretty much an AU, however closely it may mirror the original Les Mis-verse._  
_

Finally, regarding Enjolras' appearance, I've made him dark-haired because when I wrote the first draft of this (a few years ago), the Enjolras of our production had black hair, pale skin, and a slightly patrician nose. Also, my favorite Enjolrai (plural form of Enjolras) have all had dark hair, with Ramin Karimloo as my current favorite (and also a stellar Phantom).

* * *

_For my neuroses, and for all those who, in the end, understood._

His fellows would ask him, on those late afternoons at the Caf_é_, when they were not talking of revolution, about his mistress. The Friends of the ABC were, for the most part, rich young students, with Paris as their playground. Most of them had indulged in a dalliance or two - some, like Courfeyrac and Bahorel, had indulged in several - and on those afternoons the conversation sometimes turned to these less "noble" matters. Wine and beautiful women were talked of in the fond, romanticized way of young boys who dreamt of being heroes.

When all the others had shared stories of their Maries and Celestes and Jacquelines, Grantaire would take a swig from his ever-present bottle of wine, clap Enjolras on the back, and say, "And what about you, _monsieur_? Have you finally found a mam'selle to stir your blood?"

Each time, with a dignity that belied his years, Enjolras would answer, "None but _Patria._" He would smile, then, as Grantaire and the others (with the exception of Pontmercy, who was of a more quiet bent) would roll their eyes and shake their heads, jesting that their crusade had unmanned him. They did not really mean it, of course. All of the Friends were in awe of Enjolras and his passionate nationalism, his fervent desire to bring about a new beginning for their country. His claiming that _Patria_, Fatherland, was his only mistress only increased his godlike status in their eyes.

It was true that _patriotismé_ burned in Enjolras' blood, otherwise there would be no need for those late-afternoon gatherings. His passionate expositions on the current injustices of society and the need for change gave the impression that revolution was all he thought of. His peers, in awe of their leader, could be forgiven in their assumption that was truly so, that his dedication to the cause had left no room for earthly passions.

However, though it was true that the Fatherland was Enjolras' first and greatest love, it did not mean there was no room left for another. Enjolras was married to his cause and his country, but there was indeed a mistress.

And her name was _Patria_.

-0000-

She was a _grisette_, a serving girl at the Caf_é _Musain_, _but her pay was scarcely enough to feed her in these hard times. At night, she had been a cheap whore, as her mother was until death at the Hôtel Dieu claimed her. Patria's father was a Spanish sailor, and she had been named for his ship. Her mother had found a cruel irony in naming her fatherless bastard after their "Fatherland."

Until Enjolras had taken her as his woman, that had been Patria's lot in life - low in birth and having little beauty, she waited on the students on those late afternoons before heading to Montmartre to sell her soul at night. Slight, with dark red hair and delicate features that appeared slowly coarsening as a result of hard living, she did not look like the ideal of the mistress of a rich and handsome student leader. She was not beautiful in the lush and generous way that the mistresses of the other students were. She would have escaped notice, had it not been for her name.

Patria had elected to always be the one to serve the students when they gathered at the caf_é. _She'd become intrigued by this revolution that they spoke of, and by their leader: a young man who, though obviously wealthy, seemed to understand the plight of her lot, and made speech after speech about solutions for it. So she had hovered by their table when she was not serving them, listening to their discussions and watching as they hammered out their plans. She thought that she was being unobtrusive, and for the most part, she was, but Enjolras had noticed the slight Will-o'-the-wisp girl watching him with interested eyes. Always open to new recruits to the cause, he sought to engage her attentions one evening, when all the others had left.

Patria was preparing to leave for another night of peddling her flesh when Enjolras stopped her at the door.

"I have noticed you watching us. Are you curious, _citoyenne_?"

Unaccustomed to the strange form of address, and not knowing how to address someone above her station who was not propositioning her for a tumble, she lowered her eyes and nodded. She tried, then, to move past him, but he followed her out.

"Where are you going at this late hour?"

Patria flushed as she answered, "To Montmartre, _Monsieur_." She knew that the fact she was headed towards the infamous _Montmartre _district at such an hour left little to the imagination. In fact, she expected the young man to leave her. When he did not, she found assumed that he wanted to "buy" and managed to mumble, "Unless you care for some company?"

He shook his head. "I merely want to ask your name."

At this, Patria looked up at him as much as she dared. "_Je m'appelle _Patria." she replied.

It was her name that sealed it. The wheels in Enjolras' idealistic mind were set in motion. It was almost as if the heavens had sent him a sign, championing his cause. If he could rehabilitate this gutter-flower of a girl, who was living through the hard times he sought to end, she could stand as a reminder, a symbol for the transformation of their own Patria, their Fatherland...

...And there was something about her eyes, so cold and dead, that struck a chord of compassion in the idealistic young man.

-0000-

That night, he took her to a small café and bought her food, instructing her to meet him there every evening instead of going to her usual "spot" in Montmartre. When she protested, even going so far as to mention her procuress, he followed her to Montmartre and promptly, rather impulsively, paid her pimp the few francs (she was not voluptuous or sensual, and terribly thin) that Patria was worth.

Patria did not know what she was to expect from her new benefactor. On their way back from Montmartre, she told him, quite frankly, that, having paid for her, he now owned her. She then asked him if she was to come to his bed in exchange for whatever good treatment he would be giving her. Enjolras, taken aback by her blunt speech, had told her no, explaining it as simply as he could that ensuring her freedom was a patriotic duty of sorts for him.

From then on, Patria came under Enjolras' care. He arranged for her to be taught to read, write codes, and do simple sums, so she would be of use to the planned revolution. Occasionally, he asked her to come along when the students went on their campaigns to the slums. She also assisted the other women - some also mistresses of students - in the preparations for the coming revolt. He continued to feed her, and when he noticed her clothes getting too tattered he gave her money to have some made. This help was invaluable, especially nearing the winter months when the chill would have ordinarily wracked poor Patria's bones.

Pontmercy "adopted" a waif named Éponine, and her brother, the cocky Gavroche, became the pet of the students. Patria retained a similar, but more unobtrusive, position by Enjolras' side. Out of concern for his status, which being seen with her would not help, she did not openly show the increasing attachment she had for the charismatic young man. Instead, she channeled her energies into what little work she could do-stitching banners, rolling bandages, helping scribble simple codes. In time, Patria proved to be a loyal and devoted member of the cause, and her own passion for the revolution, though quieter, caught the attention of her benefactor who was, after all, still a _man_.

A mixture of hero-worship and growing affection led Patria to offer, once more, to become Enjolras' lover. By then, their relationship had progressed beyond simple charity. She was not a great beauty, but she had a quiet dignity and intensity that proved reason enough for Enjolras to accept her proposal and take her as his mistress, albeit discreetly. He was not "in love" with her, and in truth she did not expect him to be, but what they did feel for each other was enough for their arrangement to be more than a willing bed on a cold night.

He did not avail himself of the "privileges" of that arrangement often, however. There was a battle to be won, a revolution to lead, and while his country languished in poverty and degradation, Enjolras did not have much time to spend or inclination to spend it on his more personal desires. For the most part, Patria acted as a supporter, messenger, and attendant to the student revolutionary, and by all appearances, one of many.

-0000-

Tensions built up over time. General Lamarque, the only leader who had any sympathy for the lower classes, was close to death, and with him would die any voice for that class in the government. The students became more embroiled in the plans for barricades and uprisings, trying to gain support from the lower classes through campaigns to the slums of Saint Denis and Saint Michele. Patria was one of those involved in these, and tried, as one of that same class, to persuade her fellows to support this revolution that promised freedom. She did not prove too persuasive, but she was dedicated. She managed, at least, to get some of her former "colleagues" to join the crusade.

Finally, when General Lamarque died, the revolution sprang up in earnest. Overnight, the barricades were up, and some of the poor along with the students mobilized as a ragtag army. Patria, along with the other women and a few children, was sent to run errands as far away from the fighting as possible.

The night after the first attack, however, she was with the women, at the Rue de la Chanvrerie, at the barricades, preparing for what they knew could be the end.

-0000-

The mood was somber, despite the fact that the students were drinking and reminiscing on happier days. They were toasting each other. Some sang raunchy songs about their girls, and drank to them. The girls in question had the good sense to let it be and accept the toasts. They swapped stories about the days when life was simpler, when this revolution was still glorious in their imaginings, instead of the dangerous reality that dawn would bring.

However, Grantaire, full of cynicism, drank to the fears that all the men there had. Turning to Enjolras, he let loose a barb of dark words, an almost-accusation: "Will the world remember us when we fall? Are our deaths - is _your _death - just one more life?"

Enjolras kept his composure, ever the leader, but he was shaken by the reality of the situation. He did not respond to Grantaire's jibe, but let it go. The man was afraid. All of them were.

Just then, Combeferre burst upon the scene. He had been canvassing the streets. The bitter truth was clear - the people had not stirred. Their lives were as good as ended. Enjolras commanded that the women and fathers of children leave. The rest, those willing to stay, raised one last toast before the dawn came.

Combeferre and Feuilly led it. "If I die, I die with you."

The men embraced their women, and after tearful farewells, they went to sleep and the women left the barricades.

Only Patria remained.

It had been the appearance of Pontmercy's girl, Eponine, who had given her the idea. Like the waif, who had died earlier in the skirmish, Patria had come to the decision to stay as long as she could, to in fact risk death with the men. In truth, it was not because she believed in the revolution: She knew as well as the rest of them that it was slowly amounting to a hopeless cause, that not enough believed enough to take the stand and make this uprising little more than an act of martyrdom. She could have left long before: in fact, she'd thought of it, but she stayed out of loyalty - not to the cause, but to the man who led it.

Enjolras had taken her out of the gutter and given her a semblance of respectability. His aid had made her hard life on the streets a bit easier - at the very least, she no longer had to sell herself for her bread, because of him. No one looked down on her anymore, as they had before. She was a serving wench, not a whore. True, she was a mistress, but the mistress of a rich young student had infinitely more status than a cheap Montmartre _poulet_. At any rate, because Enjolras had been discreet about their relationship, few knew that she was a kept woman. She was grateful for that; for the myriad of kindnesses she had been provided.

But also she felt...something like love.

It was that feeling that made her stay. If she could, Patria would have asked Enjolras to call the whole thing off and live life: go back to just orating in cafés, be just another rich boy with big ideas. In fact, on occasion she had tried, softly pleading, telling him to remember that he was an eldest son, an heir. Telling him that he was too young, just a student, what would he know of revolution? But each time, he had chided her gently, reminding her of the cause, of what it meant, of how, in comparison, their little lives counted for nothing at all.

If he had been any other man - like Pontmercy, perhaps, who was mourning his distance from a beloved he called "The Lark" - she could have begged him in the name of what love they had. But Patria was just his mistress. The country was his first love. She could not compete with that, and would not in any case because it was that love of his _Patria_ that had drawn him to her, and her to him.

As quietly as she was able, Patria slipped through the café to where Enjolras was-the backroom of the Musain, away from the rest of his sleeping men. He had gone there to think about what would happen at dawn, knowing that it meant his life would pay the forfeit for this revolution. When she found him, he was asleep, his head pillowed on his arms, the plans and blueprints of their doomed revolution scattered on the table around him. With his eyes closed and by the light of a feeble lamp, he did not cut the imposing, godlike figure he did while awake. He looked more like the young man that he, despite his charisma and dedication and decisiveness, really just was. His heavy black hair fell across his thoughtful forehead, and shadows softened the chiseled cheeks, framing his patrician nose and dancing on his full lips, parted in sleep.

Silently, Patria knelt next to him, pausing to muse on the irony of her red hair and his black - it had been one of his slogans: red for the new world about to dawn; black for the dark night that would come to an end. Back then, none of them would have thought it would end like this: no longer fighting to win, but fighting to be remembered. She swept his hair away from his forehead, the skin damp with sweat and muscles tense with stress, even in sleep. Cautiously, she traced the lines of a face she had memorized in over a year and a half of acquaintance.

For all of her doubts, she had never imagined the acquaintance would end this way.

She leaned in to whisper in his ear. "_Monsieur,_" she said, her lips ghosting across his skin, "_merci_." Then, she moved her lips to slowly kiss his sleeping mouth.

Groggy with sleep, it took a while for the kiss to register and rouse the sleeping Enjolras. But rouse him it did. He pulled away in alarm. In the haze of the lamplight, he recognized the dark red of Patria's hair.

"What are you doing here? I told the women to leave. We cannot waste any more lives."

"I could not leave without thanking you."

The look in her eyes was hard enough for Enjolras to realize that no words could convince her to leave. He would blame himself - he had grown too attached and so she had become attached as well - but he was too much comforted by her presence to feel guilt. This was _Patria_, the symbol of his once-glorious revolution, of a Fatherland he'd hoped to take from the gutter and raise to the stars. The embodiment of all of his hopes.

It gave him a little courage. This was the truth he was dying for. He smiled as if he knew that world would one day come.

Patria turned down the lamp until barely a flame remained. Then she smiled back. In the barely-there light, she looked almost beautiful. Enjolras kissed her forehead, then gently cupped the cheek that had once been gaunt from years of missing meals. He looked into the eyes that were once so jaded and lifeless when they'd met.

His eyes were kind.

Without thinking, without really needing to think, Patria leaned in and kissed Enjolras again. This time he did not pull away.

-0000-

They made love, that night, in that little backroom where all those glorious plans had once been made. It was a slow, intense burn instead of a frenzied explosion of passion. They moved silently, in visceral harmony-whispers as clothes hit the floor, fingers gliding over warm flesh, lips brushing skin, silent sighs when they found their own release. It was not the mad, wild coupling of a man and a woman who knew that, on the morrow, they would die. It was, instead, a corporeal interlude-a man making love to his mistress when, the next day, he would die for his true love.

But though his country was still his true love, but Enjolras could not help himself. He was, after all, a passionate man, with passion enough to spare on this slight woman who was sleeping quietly in his arms on the last night of his life. He felt _something_ for her, and whether it was the wine or a desperation at dying young, that something pushed him to murmur a few, choice, farewell words against the nape of her neck before he drifted back off to sleep.

"_Je t'aime._"

-0000-

When he awoke to the cold dawn of the next morning, Patria was gone. He noted the fact without emotion. The girl had probably escaped during the night. He did not blame her for trying to save herself.

As he rose to survey his troops one last time, he noticed the addition of one more soldier in his ranks. A slight one, probably a youth with nothing to lose, he had a cap over his face and would not look up. "Welcome, _citoyen_." he said to the boy as he handed him a gun. The youth, keeping the cap over his face, nodded his assent.

Then he faced his troops, and with a few choice words, he began the battle.

"Fire!"

At first, it was Lesgles who chose to take up the flag of Father Maboeuf, but though he'd tried to dodge the bullets, eventually a few found their mark and he fell, as did several men around him. Enjolras was quick - he dropped his gun and raced for the flag. He dodged the bullets better than Lesgles did, and for a time, the flying flag gave courage to the men around him.

He noted that the youth was near him, shooting by his side and attempting to dispatch any that aimed at him. He was quick, though his shots did not always hit the mark, and he was tireless, almost frenzied in his movements. Around them both, men fell, but the youth did not seem fazed by this.

In an instant, however, that changed. A bullet caught Enjolras in the knee. He toppled, then tried to raise the flag again, waving it defiantly. Another ball hit his collarbone just as he'd raised the flag, pushing him back. He hung on to the barricades as hard as he could and tried to fly the flag again, but a final bullet found its mark and hit Enjolras in the heart. He fell, bleeding, to the ground, and with his last strength passed the flag to Grantaire, who, overcome at the fate of the man he had seen as a hero, led the last charge with a fervor so unlike the cynic of the night before.

His eyesight was slowly blurring, but Enjolras noted that the youth, now injured, was crawling towards him. The boy tried to lift Enjolras' head, but the leader was fading fast. With his dying breaths, Enjolras managed a command, "Head back to the battle, citizen! We must keep...fighting..." It still held the timbre of his once deep and commanding tone, but it was obvious that he was going. The pain had begun to dull.

The youth refused to leave, instead crawling up as close as possible as to be by his side. "No, _monsieur_," he said, his voice heavy with emotion, "My revolution is done." And, just as a bullet hit his chest, the youth removed his cap. Through slowly-dimming eyes, Enjolras could see the glint of dark red hair. _She_ let out a cry, and fell by his side.

"Patria," he gasped, "Why did you..."

"_Je t'aime._"

The memory of what he'd said last night flashed through his dying brain. He managed a small, sad smile.

"_Au revoir, _Patria._" _He said, half to his country, and half to the girl dying with him. Then, with a last gasp of "_Vive l'avenir_," the once-charismatic flame of the revolution flickered and went out. Patria, dying herself, choked on a half-sob. As her vision began to dim for what she knew to be the last time, she managed to edge back from Enjolras' body, enough to get a good look at the man she had once known.

"_A bientôt_, _Monsieur_ Enjolras."

Then, with a sigh, she too died.

-0000-

His fellows would ask him, on those late afternoons at the Caf_é_, when they were not talking of revolution, about his mistress. When all the others had shared stories of their Maries and Celestes and Jacquelines, Grantaire would take a swig from his ever-present bottle of wine, clap Enjolras on the back, and say, "And what about you, _monsieur_? Have you finally found a mam'selle to stir your blood?"

Each time, with a dignity that belied his years, Enjolras would answer, "None but _Patria._" He would smile, then, as Grantaire and the others (with the exception of Pontmercy, who was of a more quiet bent) would roll their eyes and shake their heads, jesting that their crusade had unmanned him. They did not really mean it, of course. All of the Friends were in awe of Enjolras and his passionate nationalism, his fervent desire to bring about a new beginning for their country. His claiming that _Patria_, Fatherland was his only mistress only increased his godlike status in their eyes. His peers, in awe of their leader, could be forgiven in their assumption that was truly so, that his dedication to the cause had left no room for earthly passions.

However, though it was true that the Fatherland was Enjolras' first and greatest love, it did not mean there was no room left for another. Enjolras was married to his cause and his country, but there was indeed a mistress.

She was a serving girl at the Caf_é, _and she was living in the poverty that the Friends of the ABC sought to bring to an end. She was the daughter of a sailor and a cheap whore, and for a time she had been a whore herself. She was slight, with delicate features slowly being coarsened by hard living - no great beauty, but quiet and passionate and dedicated to the cause and to the man who led it.

She had loved him.

In his own way, he had loved her.

Her name was _Patria_.

_Fin._


End file.
